


I Hate Peter Parker (and You Should, Too)

by hulksmashmouth



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: 10 Things I Hate About You AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, The Avengers - Freeform, peter takes tony's offer at the end of SMH
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-11 22:26:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15981794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hulksmashmouth/pseuds/hulksmashmouth
Summary: When Tony Stark offered Peter a spot on the Avengers, he accepted immediately and left his old life behind. Then his old life calls him back, and the welcome is way, way less warm than he expects.aka the 10 Things I Hate About You AU that no one asked for.





	1. prologue

_I’m an Avenger_ , Peter thinks breathlessly, deliriously, almost tripping on the leg of his shiny new super suit in the sudden revelation. It’s hitting him like a fist hits a face; this is what he’s been working toward ever since Mister Stark showed up at his apartment, and now it’s happening, less than a few months later. He’s an Avenger! His hands are shaking. He’s not the best public speaker and there isn’t any time to prepare himself for a press conference. _A press conference to tell the world that Spider-Man is officially an Avenger_. A _hero_. The kind of hero who can make a real difference in the world. Shoulder-to-shoulder with freaking Iron Man! He can’t wait to tell—

Oh, crap. He still has to tell May.

He lets loose a string of words that Uncle Ben would have stridently denied ever teaching him, almost falling out of the suit again and bolting for the exit, sorry Mister Stark, change of plans, this is probably all a test anyway. But there’s a mirror in the small room with him, and he gets a full view of himself in the jewel-bright new suit first. Peter doesn’t just look the part now, he _feels_ it. As naturally as breathing or blinking. This is what he’s meant to do with his life, this is how he makes a positive change. Queens just isn’t big enough.

Tonight. He’ll tell May tonight before the press conference airs. The Sokovia Accords will protect him until he’s eighteen, so really the only people who need to know for now are May, Ned, the necessary government entities, and the other Avengers. His _teammates_.

Best. Day. Ever.

Fully dressed, he takes one last look at himself in the mirror before putting on the mask. He looks older than just fifteen, he thinks. He looks like a man. A man Uncle Ben would be proud of? His parents? God, he really hopes so. Part of him likes to think that he would have chosen this path no matter what, doesn’t like to pin it on anyone, but really, if he’d grown up with his parents, if Uncle Ben hadn’t been killed, who knows how he would feel? Maybe he’d be a criminal instead, or just another rich kid with affluenza. But he isn’t. He’s Peter Parker _, Spider-Man_ , a good person doing the right thing. He has to believe they would be proud. Otherwise there’s no point.

There’s a single impatient tap on the door before Mister Stark sticks his head in. “Kid, we don’t have all day!” he snaps. “Did you—did you _fix your hair?_ I can see it poofing under the mask, oh my god, just get out here and say hello to your adoring public. Now!”

He doesn’t have any time to explain that he _didn’t_ fix his hair, it’s just _like that_ , and _also_ he’s contemplating the _gravity_ of his great responsibility going forward, since Tony’s shoving a stack of note cards into his hands and adjusting his mask so it’s not crooked on his face. “Just read the cards, kid, you’ll do great.”

He’ll do great. He’ll do _great_. Peter can _read cards_ , he’s good at spot-reading because _thank you, excellent shiny new spider-vision_ , but he’s more worried now about dropping the cards than saying something stupid. Even though he has super-spider-gripping powers on his hands that reach through the suit through some experimental fiber thingies. Dropping the cards should not be an issue, but he finds himself gripping them both as gently and securely as he might a baby bird, or maybe more like a stick of dynamite.

 _Great privilege…stepping up…my fellow Avengers…cooperation with the Accords_ … Peter nods feverishly along before pulling down his mask and walking—shambling might be a more accurate term, actually—toward the door separating his impromptu green room from the press. _Oh god oh god oh god oh god_. Miss Potts thankfully found a way to politely but firmly add into the statement notes that he’s protected from revealing his identity as a minor without sounding like a whiny kid unwilling to share his Halloween candy. It’s the only word-for-word statement, too, rather than bullet points. Good. If he’d been left to come up with that on his own he would have fumbled worse than a football on his first day of gym class in Kindergarten. Judging by what Mister Stark has told him, he’s now willing to happily agree that Miss Potts is, in fact, _the best._

He can do this. He can _totally_ do this. He’s a legit superhero now. It’s going to be fine as long as he doesn’t puke on the stage like he did when he got appendicitis at his first grade graduation.

Reaching out to push open the door, he actually feels…really good about this. Confident, strong, capable. The sensation only lasts about as long as it takes for the first flashbulb to go off; then he’s right back to sweaty-palmed panic. Reporters are yelling for his attention, waving, eager to know what he has to say. Recording every syllable and breath between words. Aw, jeez.

“Good…good afternoon,” he says in his usual, slightly deeper Spider-Man voice, leaning in toward the mic and quickly pulling back when the shy electronics whine at him in protest. He shuffles the cards feebly between his hands before setting them on the podium. So many mics, cords, cameras, he doesn’t know where to look. “How’s everybody doin’?” Tony claps him hard on the shoulder. _Don’t engage_ , the gesture says _, just talk._ He clears his throat.

“I, uh. I am the vigilante known as Spider-Man.” _Okay, good start, now make more words happen_. He checks the cards again, glad no one can see his eyes darting around behind the mask. “I have been working…” _illegally_ , he thinks, and swallows dryly “— _independently_ from the New York Police Department for the past six months. But it is now my…my _great privilege_ to accept the offer extended to me by, uh, by the Avengers to join on as a. Legally sanctioned operative under the Sokovia Accords. I am-am _stepping up_ and… _fully cooperating_ with the l-legislation of the Accords from this point forward. I will be re-… _locating_ to the official Avengers facility, and…and will only take part in police investigations or actions with the explicit permission of local law enforcement.”

More flashes, more questions as he quickly shuffles to the next card, gripping too tight, going overkill and straight up sticking the card to his palm, he has to shake it off. A few people laugh, but not unkindly.

“Why are you masked if you’re cooperating with the Accords, Spider-Man?” a pretty blonde reporter at the very front asks, recorder thrust forward. There’s a deep frown line between her eyebrows that tells Peter she already has a pretty good idea and does _not_ feel good about it.

He sucks in a breath, skipping ahead to the card written out in Pepper’s careful hand. “Those with special abilities do not always choose to have them,” he recites, trying _not_ to sound like he’s reciting. “And rarely get the opportunity choose _when_ or _how_. The truth is that I am under the age of eighteen, and…” He takes another breath, the mask feeling too tight as a tense ripple passes over the press. They’re holding their breaths, too, probably doing mental gymnastics to try and decide if it’s ethical for a teenager to be a government employee, and how to spin this to fit how they think the public should feel, too.

Putting the index card face-down, he gives himself a mental shake and looks up again. “…but that doesn’t mean I don’t answer the call, or the need, like anyone else would in my place. I was given these powers for a _reason_ and I wasn’t—I’m _not_ going to let my age stop me from doing what’s right and-and sometimes necessary. But. But my family didn’t ask for this, and so…” okay, soapbox moment over, he flips the card back, “so I have decided to keep my identity private until I turn eighteen…at which point I will freely release my identity to the public.”

And May will _still_ be at risk, whether he’s eighteen or eight, once his identity is made public. Becoming old enough to vote doesn’t negate familial vulnerability. His chest feels tight with anxiety, even though that’s still two and a half years away. Surely Mister Stark can help put a plan in place for her protection. That’s, like, his _thing_.

The blonde reporter looks deeply troubled by his minor status, big blue eyes burning as she slowly lowers herself back into her chair. Peter tries not to look directly at her, and instead looks over the press, which, _bad idea_. They pretty much all unanimously want to know how old he is, which, weird. He thinks about responding, has his mouth open in bewilderment, but then flips to the next card, which says in Mister Stark’s spiky hand **_NO QUESTIONS!!!!_** “I will _not_ be taking questions,” he says instead in a rush, but can’t help adding a quick, “Thank you!” before Mister Stark grabs him by the elbow and hustles him out of the conference room, so Miss Potts can field questions instead.

“Spider-Man’s involvement with the Avengers obviously must be carefully monitored due to his minor status,” she’s saying as he and Mister Stark reach the door. “Every incident will be carefully evaluated before his deployment can be considered for his safety…and he has to have a parent or guardian’s permission to cross state lines.”

The press’s polite laughter is cut off by the closing of the door; it’s really well soundproofed. Peter sinks onto the nearest available sitting-height surface and yanks off his mask, all the better to piteously drop his head into his hands. “Was that as sucky as it felt?” he asks.

Mister Stark pulls his head back up to its place on his shoulders. “Well,” he says, clearly thinking fast, “it was less sucky than I _thought_ it would be, if that helps.”

It does not help.

“Hey, you’re a kid, not a politician,” Mister Stark adds. “The fact that you were able to string together the words _legally sanctioned operative_ without _dabbing_ is impressive enough. Now, put on your clothes and I’ll give you the full tour while the press are leaving.”

Even covered in stress-sweat from that extremely uncomfortable five minutes, Peter can’t help but feel excited by a tour of the facility. This is, like, every little kid’s dream moment. _You’re a superhero now, son, time to see the new digs_. It’s like going on a tour of the Bat Cave, only he’s _Batman_ now instead of Robin. It’s going to be his place, too. As soon as Mister Stark leaves the room Peter’s tearing off his suit with exaggerated care—it’s brand new, after all, it would be kind of embarrassing to have to put a patch on it—and falling back into his jeans and hoodie.

The place is _huge_. Peter’s done some research on the facility, because, hello, nerd alert, of course he did, but nothing could have prepared him for this place. It was converted from a series of old Stark Industries warehouses, its origins reflected in high ceilings and long, cavernous hallways between lush suites and gyms and lounges and a game room and— “Holy crap Mister Stark, that’s the biggest lab I’ve ever seen!”

“It better be,” Mister Stark shoots back, pushing open the doors so they can explore. It feels illicit, somehow, like Peter isn’t supposed to be here even though he’s literally being escorted by an adult. He reaches out toward a nearby centrifuge, but then thinks better of it. Last thing he needs is to accidentally stick to a piece of million-dollar equipment and fling it across the _multi_ -million-dollar lab.

This is, by far, the coolest thing that has ever happened to him. Superpowers aside, Peter Parker is not the kind of kid that cool things happen to, even on his best day. He’s the guy the seagulls poop on, who almost walks into stationary vehicles because he’s _watching_ the seagulls, and who always looks stupid trying to recover when those things inevitably collide into one awful seagull-poop-covered bruise. Not the guy with access to a state-of-the-art superhero training and housing facility. He keeps waiting for Mister Stark to realize there’s been a mistake and kick him out, but he doesn’t. There’s no mistake. He’s _supposed_ to be here, because he _belongs_ here. It makes him giddy thinking about it.

“When do I start training?” he can’t help asking, pretty much the second they come to another pause in a nondescript hallway near the industrial-sized kitchen. Delicious smells waft down the hall toward them, and it takes a lot of mental begging to will his stomach not to growl.

Mister Stark looks like he can tell anyway. “Soon enough,” he says vaguely, reaching past Peter to open the door at his back. “First, there are a few semantics to take care of, like decorating.”

At his instructional nod, Peter turns around to see—a bedroom. Just a run-of-the-mill bedroom. But he gets what that means like a punch to the sternum. It’s _his_ room. His place, his, like. His _lair_. There’s a bed, a closet, a desk, and a door to what he suspects is his own bathroom. It’s like college only he’s only fifteen, which makes it _so much cooler_. And he gets to _decorate_ it!? Right now it’s the bland kind of greige that comes in the form of college dorms or how he imagines military barracks to look like.

“Can it be blue?” he asks, looking around at the bare walls just begging to feature his vintage Star Wars poster collection. “Like, dark blue, like my suit?”

Without responding, Mister Stark taps in a code on a digital panel set discreetly into the wall next to his door. The walls kind of, like, shimmer, and then suddenly they’re a jewel-bright vivid blue. “Cool, right?” Mister Stark says modestly, probably because Peter’s jaw dropped. “It’s all light refraction on fiberglass, so you can make ‘em clear, too, if you’ve got a voyeurism thing. Still trying to figure out how to do carpet, any texture is an issue, but flat surfaces work pretty well. The panel is hooked up to FRIDAY’s systems, so if you ever need anything you can just access her here or, you know, talk. Don’t be shy. FRIDAY, what’s the weather like today?”

The lights flicker softly as the AI activates inside the room, then a pleasant Irish voice comes over the speakers. _It’s a beautiful evening, boss,_ the AI says, and blackout panels along the western wall open up to reveal an enviable sunset crouching on the horizon. _The temperature is currently 66 degrees, with the day’s high at 70 and an overnight low of 53 degrees. I’d recommend a light sweater if you’re going anywhere after dark._

“Thanks, dear,” Mister Stark says, the lights flicker again as FRIDAY deactivates, and he rounds on Peter with a waggle of eyebrows and hands spread. “So. Time to face the music, kid. I’ll take you home, you talk with your aunt, and then tomorrow you’ll come back here _with her_ to meet with General Ross and sign all the government mumbo jumbo paperwork.”

Paperwork. General Ross. Aunt May probably needs to sign a _permission slip_ for him to be an Avenger, that’s so _embarrassing_. “And _then_ I’ll be an Avenger?” he asks, trying not to sound too hopeful or full of dread.

That earns him another clap on the shoulder. “If your aunt doesn’t kill you, yes, you’ll be an Avenger _in training_. You’ll live here, train with me, Vision, and an Olympian gymnast—what, don’t look at me like that, trapeze boy—and get tactical training from Rhodey, at least until he’s back in fighting shape and can whoop your ass here to Timbuktu. Publicly, Peter Parker will still be my star intern, but that’s _exactly_ why I’m sending him away to be trained in finance and engineering in the finest Swedish educational institution, to become my protégé since I’m almost certainly never having kids. I’m getting soft and sentimental in my old age, I guess.”

Peter’s eyebrows shoot up in response. “I’m going to Sweden?”

Mister Stark gives him the most I’m-so-done-with-you look he’s ever seen in his entire life. “ _No_ , it’s a _front_ , haven’t you ever heard of a _front_ , kid? You’ll only _go_ to Sweden for the purposes of being _seen_ in Sweden, every few months. Full-time, you’ll be wherever the Avengers need you to be.”

That…does make marginally more sense. This is what happens when Peter gets excited about something, though, all logic flies out the window in exchange for excitement and believing everything he’s told no matter how absurd. Rookie mistake. Hopefully Black Widow will come out of hiding soon and teach him how to lie properly. Even though she’s technically an internationally wanted criminal and will probably just go right to the RAFT if she does. Even though _that_ seems kind of extreme, in Peter’s opinion, but he _did_ officially take the side of the Accords in the heat of things, so he probably should keep up the front of agreeing with that part. Even though it’s kind of…awful. He’s getting lost swirling down his own brain-drain. Crap.

“The reporters have all left,” says Miss Potts, striding so confidently into the glorified dorm room she has to have asked FRIDAY where they were. She offers Peter a smile and much kinder squeeze of the shoulder than Tony’s dude-friendly smacks and punches. “If you’re finished with the tour, then you’re free to head home for the night. When do you expect to move in? Or—no, I suppose you’ll want to discuss that with your aunt first, of course.” Another gentle and dazzling smile. “We’ll look forward to having you, Peter.”

“Yes, just _thrilled_ ,” adds Mister Stark in a nasty sort of joking voice. “We’ll have cucumber finger sandwiches ready and waiting in the west garden, breathlessly anticipating your arrival.”

Peter nods slowly, not sure if Mister Stark is being weird, but then again, he’s _always_ weird. “Sounds cool,” he agrees, and turns back to Miss Potts. She feels safer, generally more stable. “I’m all set. Time to, uh, rip off the Band-Aid, right?” He can’t help the nervous laugh that bubbles in his chest. Time to tell May. Time to _die_ , more like, because he’d so rather do that than come clean and then have to have a deeply personal and meaningful conversation with her about it, let alone even _begin_ trying to convince her that letting him drop out of school to be a full-time Avenger is a _good_ idea. He may as well try to convince a dog that walking solely on its hind legs is a good idea, too.

In short order he’s packed up as quickly and efficiently in Happy’s car as he was earlier this afternoon, clutching his backpack like he’s on the Subway, paranoid it’s going to be stolen and he’ll lose his new suit. No stopping on the way home. Although, picking up dinner would make a serious upswing in his _Peter-is-such-a-good-nephew-give-him-anything-he-wants_ points.

No Delmar’s to stop at until repairs are finished, though, so he has Happy drop him off at May’s favorite Thai place instead, the one with the very generous sticky-rice waiter. It’s a good mile or so from the apartment, but he’ll just swing back in his suit to get there before the food gets cold and prevent losing the suit all in one. That’s a really smart idea, Peter thinks proudly to himself as he hastily changes in the backseat, Happy loudly complaining the entire time.

Identity fully concealed, he orders all of May’s favorites, even though it means sacrificing getting a few of his own. He wants May to be so pleased that when he swings the hammer down on her good mood it’ll only make a dent in her happy bubble instead of popping it altogether.

 _Where the heck are you??_ May texts just as their bags of food are being brought out.

 _Sorry sorry sorry AcDec practice ran SUPER late!_ he quickly texts back, still deeply in the habit of lying. _Got a ride from Cindy’s dad tho! Omw now with apology dinner! Love you!_

Probably too many exclamation points, but May likely won’t notice. Hopefully.

Securing the food bags in his backpack, he also secures the clip across his chest—what? It’s an essential piece of the backpack! It wouldn’t be there if he shouldn’t clip it, and besides, swinging from rooftop to rooftop causes a lot of inertia!—before reducing what should have been a half-hour walk into a five-minute swing. He’s still getting used to it, this feeling of freedom, of speed and lightness, it’s _awesome_.

He lands on his bedroom floor with a muted _thunk!_ , figuring he’ll change back into his street clothes, climb back down the wall, and come in through the front. The last six months have worked out pretty well in that regard, stashing the suit and May’s none the wiser. He insisted she _please, please stop cleaning my room for me, I’m fourteen, I can do it myself_ , when he started making his first suit, too, so there’s really no reason for her to be in his room unless she thinks he has drugs or girls or something in there, which, _okay May_.

But she’s there anyway. A perfect tableau of shock as she stands framed by his open bedroom door. Jaw: dropped. Eyes: googling out of her skull. Hands: dropping the fresh laundry she was clearly going to deposit on his bed for folding.

Crap.

“I can explain?” he starts lamely, but May’s panic response is clearly having none of it.

“ _What the FUCK?!_ ” she screams, and starts toward him like he might be a ghost she could feasibly walk through with enough hard work and determination.

Without thinking about it he scrambles away, backward and up the wall behind him, until he’s safely hanging from the junction of wall and ceiling in the corner of the room. Not that he thinks she’ll hit him or anything like that, but, this is kind of a unique situation; no easy way to predict how _anyone_ would react, except maybe Ned.

As it is, seeing him scramble like that only makes things worse. May stops dead in the center of the small room, staring slack-jawed up at him like he’s a particularly nasty patch of mold she’s just discovered even though it’s been growing for years. Not mad or even disgusted (yet), just shocked.

“Peter,” she says, incredulous. “Peter, what the _fuck?_ Oh my _god_ , you’re, you, you’re, I… _what the fuck?!_ ”

He drops back to the floor, relieved when she doesn’t flinch away, and offers out his backpack. “I brought dinner,” he says slowly. He feels weirdly calm now that she knows. The hard part is over. “I was going to tell you, that’s why I…I was going to tell you, I _promise_. It’s just been…a really crazy week. In general.”

“A crazy _week?_ ” she echoes, dropping down to sit on the edge of his bed. “I…Spider-Man has been showing up on the news for _six months_. You’ve been sneaking out and hiding from me and _lying_ to me. For _six months_.”

“I know, I…”

“Has it been a _really crazy_ six months, too?” May isn’t even yelling anymore, her voice soft and full of doubt, which is somehow worse than the yelling. “Did you not think you could _trust_ me?”

Takeout now thoroughly forgotten, he drops his backpack on the floor and hurries to sit next to May on the bed. He even takes her hand, which is usually the kind of stuff she initiates, but it does seem to ground her back into the moment instead of her own head. “ _I trust you_ ,” he promises more seriously than he thinks he’s ever promised anything before in his entire life. “You’re, like, the _only_ person I trust, May. It wasn’t about that. I was trying to keep you _safe_.”

Her hands twitch in her lap at that, like she wants to throw them in the air and cuss some more. Instead they flutter and go still again, clenched around one another. “It’s supposed to be _my_ job to keep _you_ safe,” she finally says with over-bright eyes. “Not the other way around.”

“I know,” he agrees, mouth twisting to the side. “Things just change a little when there are superpowers in the game, I guess.” That, at least, makes her smile. Only slightly, but it’s still something. “May, I’ve been _dying_ to tell you. Do you…think we can eat, and talk about? There’s some stuff I want to go over with you _.” Before you turn on the TV and see me make promises to the world without your permission_ , he thinks with a concealed internal wince.

Her eyes won’t focus on him. There are clearly a lot more things she wants to say, wants to _yell_ , but she’s trying to be calm. Which is kind of hilarious in its own way, because _serene_ is not exactly a word many people have used to describe May Parker, historically.

“Okay,” she finally nods in a determined kind of way. “Okay, honey. Let’s talk it out.”

And, somewhat miraculously, they do. It takes all night and well into the next morning, May getting up to make coffee sometime around midnight, bringing him back a soda from the fridge, neither of them wanting to stop until they’ve hashed it all out, and out, and out. It’s going to take a long time to rebuild her trust in him, he knows that, but he wants to do this more than anything in the world. He’s an _Avenger_ now, he’s essential personnel, he’s _needed_. He tries and he tries to make her understand, and somewhere around the zillionth go around she finally seems to—not understand, not yet, but give in.

She refuses point-blank, however, to move into the Avengers facility with him, to live for free off of “Tony Stark’s blood money,” as she calls it. Queens is where they _both_ belong, she emphasizes, but if he doesn’t want to stay with her she won’t force him, either. He can go live with the Avengers. _Please just call once in a while, okay honey?_ she asks like he’s emancipating himself and leaving the country, which, he guesses he may as well be.

It doesn’t feel much like a victory, after that, but he’ll take what he can get.


	2. Ned

Ned Leeds has a serious problem.   
  
As if being a super-smart fat kid in high school isn’t hard enough, he’s hopelessly, terribly, disgustingly in love with the most unattainable girl at Midtown: Tabitha Jones. She’s just the best. Her name is quirky and adorable and he doesn’t care what she thinks about it. She’s the most effortlessly cool girl he’s ever met. She’s so pretty he’s starting to think her face was hand-crafted by _actual artisan angels_. And she’s _nice_ to him. _All the time_. For _no reason_ , just to _be nice_. He wonders if maybe she found out that he’s actually her age and skipped two grades when he was a little kid, that she sees they’re on the same level, he’s not just some creepy senior with a hopeless crush. But it’s hard to say, because he likes talking to her, but not about anything real. Just school and TV and stuff. It sucks being so afraid.  
  
The thing even harder than being in love with TJ Jones? Being in love with MJ Jones’s little sister.   
  
There was once a time that Ned thought he and MJ were actually going to be friends, when she became captain of the Academic Decathlon team and she told them all to call her by her nickname. She started to sit on his end of the table, after Peter super secretly moved in with the Avengers and people at school still thought he was out sick.   
  
Sometime after it came out that he actually “transferred to a tech school in Sweden” MJ got cagey. No, worse, she got _mean_. She didn’t make anyone start calling her Michelle again, but may as well have; Michelle Jones was no longer anyone’s friend, she was a fortress of academia. And when TJ started her freshman year the next fall it only got worse; jocks who sniff around her get a black eye with no warning first. Anyone who makes the mistake of making a not-so-polite comment about her within earshot is read the Riot Act and taken to school—literally—about objectification, the male gaze, and rape culture. It’s kind of awesome to see, if you aren’t the subject of her scrutiny. Only he with the noblest of intentions is allowed past MJ’s defenses; very few are brave or stupid enough to try proving their worth.  
  
The thing even _harder_ than being in love with MJ Jones’s little sister? Being in love with Robert Jones’s daughter.  
  
The dude is _crazy cakes_. No one really knows anything about the Jones parents, except that Robert’s a doctor and Celine is not present. Most people figure she either ran away from him or died just to get away from him. Both seem kind of…harsh, honestly. Robert is a nice enough dude, he’s just…well _, crazy cakes_. Not the kind of guy equipped to deal with single parenting daughters in what he calls _These Days_ in a trembling and ominous tone. In his eyes, teenage boys are nothing but dicks on legs, mosquitos seeking vulnerable flesh to poke and impregnate. His protective side might even be endearing if it wasn’t so loud. And public. And _graphic_. Guy likes his gory details.  
  
He picks them up from school every single day even though they’re right on a subway line, petrified that they’ll be seduced on their path home like Little Red Riding Hood. Any boy (or girl, he’s at least open-minded in _that_ regard) who shows up at their house unannounced is subjected to his full and deeply interrogatory focus until they flee or cry, whichever comes first.  
  
The thing _even way super harder_ than being in love with Robert Jones’s daughter? Being in love with the same girl Flash Thompson is determined to bang.   
  
Which, ew, he’s an actual, almost-eighteen-year-old senior. She’s _sixteen_ , dude, don’t be creepy. He doesn’t even seem to _like_ her when she’s not around, even if he acts like it when they’re talking. And she’s sixteen, fresh-faced and innocent and all that stuff, eager to live out her YA novel love story, so of course she falls for it every time! No one could blame her, but she’s also just as stubborn as her sister, so if anyone tries to convince her to stay away from him or that he’s faking it, it only makes her like him more.  
  
Teenagers are the worst. And yes, Ned _does_ include himself under that umbrella, because he doesn’t feel any less creepy when he makes note of her favorite coffee drinks and books and, like, _everything_. Just in case he ever needs to buy her a gift or a refreshment or literally anything she wants within the realm of his piggy bank’s budget. See? Creepy! Why are teenagers _so creepy!_  
  
Doesn’t really matter. People who knew Liz call TJ “Liz two-point-oh” sometimes. She’s popular, she’s pretty, she’s crazy intelligent and driven and so ridiculously out of Ned’s league it’s actually a little bit hilarious. There’s no chance, not without a miracle.  
  
Which is fine by Ned. Really! Sure, he’s already got his college applications in, which had been a pretty good distraction through the fall semester, and now that he’s home free (not that he would Senior Slide, he enjoys being good at things too much) his mind is allowed to wander a lot more to other things. Like prom.

Oh, boy, another dance by himself. He used to go with Cindy as friends, but now that she and Betty are serious girlfriends he’s perpetually the third wheel when they all hang out.  
  
For a long time after Peter left, Ned was miserable. I mean, his best friend just _left_. And yeah, it _was_ to join the Avengers and save the world and stuff. That would be totally cool, if over the first six months Peter’s calls and texts and Snapchats hadn’t become fewer and farther between, until one day Ned just straight-up realized he’d been ghosted _by his best friend_. Yeah, Peter being an Avenger is way awesome except for that part.  
  
He tries not to feel too bad about it. After all, Peter’s got all these new superhero friends, and he’s traveling the world, and he’s gotta check in at his cover in Sweden every few months too. He’s a busy guy. It makes sense that his old life would kind of become his _past_ life. It just sucks at the same time, is all.  
  
Still. When he left, Peter made Ned promise to keep an eye on Aunt May. He probably meant for her protection, but Ned likes to think of it as Jesus entrusting Mary’s care to Paul. He takes it seriously. He tries to check in on her at least once a week, but more if he doesn’t have a lot of homework. She’s not some feeble old lady, but if _he’s_ lonely when he pays attention to the Peter-shaped hole in his life, he can’t imagine how she feels, like, _all the time_.  
  
So he goes over, and sometimes she’s happy to see him and sometimes she isn’t. Both are fine with him. He’s always got some excuse to bring her food, just in case, remembering that she isn’t the best cook and might like a treat once in a while. Sometimes she lets him in and they don’t really talk, just eat and watch the news to see if Spider-Man saved the world that week. It’s nice. Definitely an adequate break from the mayhem of his little sisters. On slow news days they put in a movie, or he’ll bring one from home. Those nights are usually better; fresh popcorn with extra butter seems to lift May’s spirits whether she wants it to or not.  
  
So they make it work. Barely.  
  
He goes to school. He puts his head down and works hard to go to a good college. He tries not to stare longingly every time TJ passes him in the halls or cafeteria. But when she catches his eye, turns her thousand-watt smiles on him? _Game over._

There has to be something he can do to show her he’s a good guy. Like flowers, girls like flowers, right? Or, like, lately the thing with unicorns and mermaids? Could he get her a mermaid unicorn toy thing, or would that be weird? He just. He wants to take TJ to prom _really bad_. A hundred other dances can go by totally solo, he doesn’t care about any of them, as long as he can get just one chance with her before he goes away to college and never sees her again. And that would be okay! It’s not like he wants to, like, _own her_ like some Edward Cullen or anything. He just wants her to know that he kind of loves her, because everyone should get to know they’re loved without being beholden to the person who loves them.

So he just. He picks the day (a Tuesday, he’s a damn fool) and the time (right after lunch, when people are usually happiest) and tries to approach her with some modicum of confidence as he says a breathless, “Hi, TJ.”  
  
She turns away from the inside of her locker, and is it just him or does her face light up when she sees it’s him? “Oh, hey, Ned!” she replies, hugging a technicolor Lisa Frank binder (ha! Unicorns!) to her chest. “I missed you at Assembly Day on Friday, you always make the best jokes about the presenter. Were you sick?”  
  
She missed him? She _missed_ him! “Nah, my mom let me take the whole day because I was taking my driving test,” he says, trying not to grin like a serial killer imagining TJ looking around the auditorium for him. Worrying? Maybe! “And I passed! Ya boy is _great_ at parallel parking.”  
  
“That’s awesome! You’ll have to take me for a drive sometime; my test isn’t scheduled until spring so I won’t have to do it in the snow.”  
  
His palms are sweating; he tries to discreetly wipe them on his jeans. “Definitely,” he promises, and realizes (incorrectly) that he now has the actual perfect opening for the next part. “Actually, I could, uh. I could. Drive you to…to prom? If we went together?”  
  
TJ’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows shoot up, not out of horror but surprise. It suddenly occurs to Ned that it’s only been, like, a _week_ since winter break. No one’s even _thinking_ about prom yet, except student council. Last night he thought it was clever, asking early so he can avoid the awkwardness _of Oh, sorry, someone already asked me_. Only now, judging by the look on TJ’s face, he’s going to have to face the worse awkwardness of her finding a nice way to say _I don’t want to_.  
  
“Wow, that’s so… _punctual_ of you,” she finally says with a minute shake of her head, fingers fumbling with the edge of her binder. “And just, like, _so nice_ of you to ask, since sophomores can only go if they’re invited, that’s really cool. I just, uh. I just…”  
  
Her eyes flicker to something over Ned’s shoulder. It takes everything in him not to look, because he’s pretty sure Flash is lurking somewhere in that direction.   
  
This is it, he understands with a painful thud of rejection in his heart. She was just being nice to be nice, and that’s cool all on its own because she’s a great friend, he had just…hoped.   
  
TJ’s focus returns to his face, sees the devastation slowly creeping up on him, and her eyes widen in horror. “It’s because of my dad!” she blurts out. The pen clipped to her binder catches on one groping hand and flies across the hall. Neither of them moves to fetch it. “He, uh. Everyone knows he won’t let me date unless MJ does, and like, _okay_ , right?”  
  
Oh. Okay. Either she’s letting him down easy, or she’s genuinely really sorry. She _looks_ really sorry. Ned turns around under the guise of picking up her fallen pen, scans the hallway. No sign of Flash. _No sign_ of Flash? Then she wasn’t looking at him, just— _looking_. She…she really _wants_ to go with him?  
  
“I would _totally_ go with you if I could,” she insists as she accepts the pen, gnawing on her lower lip. “Sorry, Ned. I-I gotta get to Calculus. Bye.”  
  
And yeah, she runs away, but with a forlorn glance back at him over her shoulder that makes Ned’s heart skip, like, probably an inadvisable number of beats. She actually regrets not being able to go with him. This is legit. Holy _shit!_  
  
He spends the rest of the day as distracted as he can get while still enjoying being at school, all tied up in the pitter-patter of his heartbeat. The second school is over, however, he knows what he’s going to do. He’s going to go home and start to formulate his plan: Operation Free TJ. Either he has to change Mister Jones’s mind, which, _okay_ , or he has to convince MJ to start dating. Which is almost even less feasible.  
  
But he has to try. He’s got to!  
  
Turning the corner to the school’s main hallway toward the entrance, he glances up on habit to wave bye to Principal Morita through his open office door, and almost trips over his own feet, lands on his face, and dies of his nose-bones stabbing into his brain. He _recognizes_ the familiar figure standing in Morita’s office, shaking the principal’s hand. Ned would know the back of that head anywhere.  
  
“Peter?”  
  
Peter’s actually gotten a few inches _taller_ in the last eighteen months. His hair is tousled in that way that you just know he uses expensive products to make it _look_ tousled. The fashionable clothes that sit perfectly on his frame have to be tailored, if not custom-made.

And, oh, god, he’s wearing yellow-tinted sunglasses on his lapel. He’s actually done it. It’s exactly what May feared. He’s Tony Stark Junior.   
  
“Ned!” Peter gasps, easily sidling out of the office to cross the hall and…shake his hand. Since when are they _business partners?_ This is supposed to be his best friend in the world. Now he has a tan, and his hand feels different, and he smells different, and his teeth are straightened and whitened and he’s just. _Different_. “How are you, buddy? It’s been a _minute_.”  
  
Okay, wait. So he’s Tony Stark Junior, but schmaltzy. Which is even worse in Ned’s book. At least when Tony Stark is only nice to someone under the light of a blood moon it’s because he means it, rather than being nice to everyone all the time and never meaning it.

“What are you doing here?” Ned asks, pulling his hand away and resisting the urge to wipe it on his coat. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”  
  
Peter draws back, blinking, his eyes drawn to Ned’s floating hand. “It…wasn’t in the plan,” he admits, self-consciously pushing back his hair. “May had a, uh, a health scare. So I’m back in town for a few weeks while we figure things out.” His mouth twists off to the side and he ducks his head, shoving both hands into his pockets.  
  
“May’s _sick?_ ” Ned asks, immediately distracted. He hadn’t noticed anything different about her the last time he went over, but that was almost three weeks ago. She’d started just not answering her door, and he thought it was because she was sick _of him_. Maybe…oh no…maybe she _couldn’t_ answer, and he just _left_...that would make him feel all different kinds of terrible. “What’s wrong? Does it. Is she gonna be okay? Peter, I promise, I was looking out for her, I didn’t-!”  
  
“I know,” Peter says quickly, but he isn’t looking directly at Ned. “You—this isn’t your fault, Ned, I promise. Besides, it should’ve been me here, anyway. You are officially relieved of duty. It’s just, uh. Tests and stuff. Maybe a surgery down the road. So I’m just…gonna be here until May’s got the all-clear. It’s fine. It’ll be _fine_.”  
  
If Ned hadn’t known Peter since they were in middle school, he might have even fallen for the easy smile on Peter’s face. As it is, well, he’s not convinced. Still, it’s apparently none of his business anymore. It would be pretty uncool of him to push, anyway, so he just nods. “Okay, man. I gotta get home. See you…tomorrow?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, totally!” Peter replies, a little overenthusiastic for the guy who did the ghosting. “The usual place at lunch?” And he looks so stupidly hopeful that Ned can’t help but nod again, even though he isn’t sure how he feels about sitting with him again like nothing changed. “Awesome! Bye!”  
  
Feeling no small amount of emotional whiplash—TJ after lunch and Peter after school? What the heck?—Ned gives himself a mental shake and runs out to the pickup line to meet his mom and sisters in the car.

From there it’s nothing but _noise_ because his beloved and precious little sisters have never heard of quiet time in their entire lives, not once. He allows himself an indulgent moment of eyes-closed-internal-swearing before turning around to face them in the backseat and join in on whatever they’re yelling about. Today it’s the Hamilton Mixtape, since Mom finally decided they’re mature enough to handle the content. Lord help his eardrums, at least they have _good_ music taste.  
  
Mom makes him a snack at home, because she’s the best, and as he settles down to do his homework in his room the unthinkable happens: his mind wanders. He _lets_ it wander, even, back to his conversation with TJ earlier. Something always drew him to the small Cupid’s bow curve of her upper lip, even when he wasn’t thinking about kissing her. It makes her look like she’s always on the verge of smiling.  
  
There has to be a way to get her dad to come around. Ned is a good person, he can appeal to the guy directly and…possibly be murdered by a crazy white man fixated on his daughters’ virtue. Maybe not.  
  
But then maybe there’s a way to get around the whole MJ-has-to-date-too rule? Like appeal directly to MJ to talk some sense into her dad? But she seems just as protective of her sister as their dad, if not from a more feminist standpoint as generic craziness. If Ned asks her to help him date her sister, her head might do a full 360 rotation as she recites bell hooks in tongues or something. He really doesn’t know, and that really bums him out again. It’s Peter coming back that has him thinking about how things could have been.  
  
If someone dated _MJ_ , though, he could date TJ for sure, or their dad would have to eat his own promise.

Someone who might feel like he owes Ned a favor for being a major dick for the last year. And someone who might need a distraction from his home problems.  
  
It might actually work if MJ doesn’t gouge his eyes out on first approach.  
  
Opening up his internet browser, Ned starts to write an email with the same frenzied effort he once took to his college application essays. This is his only shot and he isn’t going to waste it.  
  
Only...if this _is_ his only shot, then maybe an email wouldn't work. It can’t just be persuasive, it has to be _meaningful_ , too. So he closes his email browser and opens his video chat instead, looking up Peter’s name on his contacts list. Where it used to say _Inactive 559 Days_ there’s suddenly a green smiling face icon. _Online Now!_ Awesome! Ned doesn’t think twice before starting the video chat. Peter wouldn’t be online if he didn't want anyone to talk to him.  
  
The screen wakes up within a few seconds, Peter’s blurry face on the other side. He smiles bemusedly into his webcam. “Ned! Hey, man, what’s up? It was _so good_ to see you earlier, I meant to call you, like, a _million_ times this year, things just got so hectic with the team and—“  
  
“I need a favor,” Ned interrupts him, flushed and in a hurry to get this over with because he _knows_ it’ll work. “I need you to take MJ to prom.”  
  
The smile melts as easily from Peter’s face as butter from hot toast. “MJ?” he asks.  
  
“Yeah, you know, president of the Academic Decathlon team? Really, _really_ pretty? And she, like, sat with us at lunch a few times?”  
  
“No, I remember _who_ MJ is," Peter says, waving his hand. Only then does Ned realize that Peter isn’t wearing a shirt, and that there’s a pull-up bar propped in the bedroom door behind him. Oh, yikes. “I just thought…I just thought she was kind of, you know…hated me?”  
  
Ned has to take a second to think about that, because, yeah, but also: “She hates _everyone_ , actually, so you’re really coming in on level ground.”

“But why would I…?” Peter frowns deeply. His eyes focus slightly below his webcam, probably searching Ned’s face even though the overall illusion is that he’s avoiding eye contact at all costs. “I think I must be missing something, here. Why would I want to date someone who hates literally everyone? I’m _part_ of everyone!”

Ned didn’t prepare for this part. Actually, he didn’t prepare for _any_ of this. Stupid! This is why studying ahead is always important. He thought Peter would just feel like he owed Ned a solid for being a jerk. “Because she’s pretty?” he tries, but to obviously no avail from Peter. Okay, no, that wouldn’t work. MJ _is_ pretty, but in the kind of way that a fire is pretty; get too close and it _will_ burn you whether it likes you back or not. So, maybe honesty _is_ the best policy. “Because if she dates, then her dad will let her sister date, too. And I really… _really_ want to take her sister to prom.”

Peter blinks, taken aback. “That’s kind of weird.”

“Me asking or the rule?”

“I mean, honestly? Both.”

Still, Peter leans back in his desk chair and swivels, the same way Ned used to watch him swivel hundreds and hundreds of time before while they were ruminating on homework, or a problem with the Spidey-suit for that one week. He stares at the ceiling like it’s the one asking him for help instead of the boy in his laptop. “I just…I don’t know, Ned. I want to help, but I’m really tied up with May and. Other stuff.”

He knows he’s supposed to be mad at Peter, but he can’t help feeling a twinge of worry. “What other stuff? The Avengers aren’t making you do super-stuff while May’s sick, are they?”

“No, no, they’ve been great, actually,” insists Peter, almost falling out of the chair. At least his super beefy new self is still a little clumsy. It’s actually comforting. “It’s just. There are medical bills, and May can’t work, and she _won’t_ accept Tony’s help. Even from the very beginning. That’s why she wouldn’t move upstate with me, she’s too proud. So I have to help with rent. With _money_. I won’t have a lot of time for lots of extra-curricular stuff. I’m only re-enrolled at Midtown because I have to be enrolled _somewhere_ if I’m not in fake-Sweden anymore.”

Well, it’s nice to know he’s only at Midtown because there’s a gun to his head, not because he actually _missed_ anyone. Jeez. Why does he keep thinking Peter cares about the little people anymore? Ned realizes he should have anticipated the money thing, though. Just because he’s a superhero doesn’t mean he has a pension plan or anything.

So. He’ll have to ask one of his other friends, only his other friends are Cindy and Betty, and they’re pretty firmly sandwiched together 100% of the time. Not a lot of room for even fake-dating, let alone anything else.

“I’ll pay you,” he blurts without thinking, then immediately regrets it. It’s not like his family is swimming in dollar bills, either. “Or—I’ll _find_ _someone_ to pay you.”

“I…I really don’t know, that seems kind of—“

“Peter,” Ned interrupts, one hand braced on the screen of his laptop as if it’s Peter’s shoulder. He can’t physically shake sense into him from this distance, but he can appeal to his guilt. “Peter, I wouldn’t ask if there was anyone else who could help me. You’re still my only friend, and _you_ don’t even talk to me. I really, really like this girl. _Please_ , Peter.”

Peter seems frozen, his eyes wide and shoulders stiff. So. Impromptu Step One: Guilt Peter Into Helping Me likely worked, but it feels kind of bad. He lets out a gusting breath through his nose and leans both elbows on his desk. He mutters something Ned can’t hear under his breath.

“Fine,” he caves, just like Ned knew he would. “Just. I really, really need the money, Ned. Not just for May; if I’m taking MJ out I need to do it right.”

“I know,” agrees Ned immediately. “I’ll get the money, I promise. Peter, thank you. Seriously.”

Shaking his head, Peter unlaces his fingers and reaches up to close his own laptop. “Yeah, whatever.”

The screen goes dark, then kicks him back to his contacts page. Ned’s heart skips another few essential beats. His plan is going to work. He’s going to take TJ to prom. Now he just has to initiate Impromptu Step Two: Find A Wealthy Benefactor to Pay Peter. He sits and thinks about it until the sun sets outside his window, and then thinks about it some more.

And idea comes to him. He doesn’t like it at all.

He opens a new email.

_Hey Flash, what’s up? I was wondering if you might be interested in a business proposition…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should get this out of the way early, so just know, I DO NOT CONDONE NED'S, PETER'S, FLASH'S, OR EVEN MJ'S BEHAVIOR AT ALL. They're all going to be stupid idiots in this fic, some more than others, some CREEPIER than others, and some with a lot more ill-will than others. Their behaviors do NOT align with how I think any of these kinds of situations should be handled. Thank you. 
> 
> Please comment with your thoughts and feelings, and leave kudos!

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is in NO WAY affiliated with my Have Patience On Your Local Teens series, just something fun I'm doing in my spare time at work since there's no wifi and p much every website EXCEPT ao3 is blocked on the computers. 
> 
> Chapters will be posted as I finish them, aka irregularly af.
> 
> Enjoy and leave comments if you feel so inclined! Love you all! Remember to hit me up on tumblr too!


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